Part 2 - Mornings

But on mornings like this, smokey cloudy and breeze I tend to think of
you sometimes, I do not ask myself why I think of you when I have
someone in my life. Instead I sit before the window or while I stroll
in my terrace I look at the vast expanse of the uniform grey sky and
think of one of the birds which flew away, for which you could pay any
price, I think of the birds, one which might be with you, another
which might be somewhere, like I am, somewhere.
I do not read the poems you have written, I cannot read them, I am so marvelled by the
elegance and swiftness of the nib through which the words appear as if
I see them appearing in your head, flowing out of your fingers; it
would be such a pity to have them typed out as text, and I would like
you a little less if you ever do so. Where do you come from, some
outdated past, filled with memory and nostalgia which cannot cope up
always but so easily is the calm smile restored, you steady eyes, yes,
that is the thing I might have liked about you first, the poise in
your look.

The strong breeze brings in the moist coolness of rain
somewhere, rain yet untouched, unsoiled, I inhale deeply, is such the
smell of rain, without you I would not have known, I delay to exhale,
till I almost swoon off. So sitting before this window looking at one
half of the sky uniformly cloudy minus the shadowy city I sometimes
when I think of you imagine the window through which all the colours
of the morning on the other half of the sky from the terrace on nights
spend sleeplessly or early awakening amidst dreams, I hold my hands
limply ahead asking you to carry me in your mind in your morning
dreams of morning when you stay awake I would wake in your eyes, take
me to this window through your eyes to the drawing room of your mind
transported to your world, if this be the image I want to be to
experience the real in your mind.

On morning like this like the rest of the mornings and days overcast on end for weeks the routine rigmarole is a less painful since anytime looking at the kites flying
against the fluorescent white clouds I can anytime close my eyes and
imagine the windows in the painting of yours in the still canvas of
your eyes; if I closed my eyes a little longer your fingernails
brushes a dark line of kohl over your lower eyelips, you don't apply
kohl, do you. At first sight it seemed that it might have been any
girl, then when i look longer it seemed behind the butterfly over your
mouth it seemed it was you somewhere, with the northern lights in your
hairs or luminous starfishes aglow mid-ocean or a journey through the
cosmos, only your eyes were full of sorrow, her eyes, so when I looked
longer at her eyes I realized how it could have been any girl you
portrayed, because women suffered not as individuals but because of
being women in our world, how subtlety you make me realise it, I have
never while approaching the lips of a woman heard the flutter of the
butterfly taped and pinned at the lips flapping frail wings to free,
to tell your story.